


The Art of Distraction

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-21
Updated: 2003-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1641575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for kormantic</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Art of Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kormantic

 

 

The Art of Distraction 

It was Christmas Eve, the fourth Christmas Holmes and I had spent together. In the past the two of us had been plagued by mysteries or the surplus of patients this time of year carries. Yet, this year Holmes sat idle and a colleague of mine was to be on call. I was looking forward to a calm, quiet Christmas with my companion and friend, but first I would have to find some way to distract him from the needle. 

The state of tedium was setting in upon him quickly. It had been three days since his last case and he was already growing restless. So, as usual, I devised some plan to keep him from that dastardly influence that left him so melancholy and dull. And, unlike the last one, this one did not involve constructing a false case and having Holmes endlessly taunt me with the fact that he knew the truth from the start. No, this was a simple case of distraction with the use of things that shine. 

Merrily, I made my way about the sitting room, putting garland here and an ornament there. "If you are trying to poison me, Watson, you're doing a very poor job of it." I looked away from the modest tree I was decorating and smiled jovially at my dear friend. He stood in his doorway, warily eyeing the mistletoe hanging above him. 

"Surely, Holmes, not even you can escape the holiday cheer." He observed the state of the room, blanching at the sparkling garland I had adorned the bookshelves with. 

"I assure you that I haven't fallen victim to it since I was ten years old." His voice had that tinge of condescending that suggested that I was being childish, but it didn't deter me from my gaiety. I watched as he walked to the winged chair that sat by the fire and placed himself in it. I could feel his amusement as I finished decorating the tree and then bustled around to find the angel to top it. 

I admit that I paused for a moment whilst Holmes wasn't looking to admire his fire-lit profile. Disturbing thoughts of him had been gnawing at me for weeks and I'd finally given in to the fact that I wanted him in the most carnal way. However, I would never act upon these unorthodox feelings. While Holmes had never acted inclined towards women, he had acted equally about men. I was left with a myriad of hope and doubt. Meanwhile, I had to keep him distracted. 

"I recieved a nice bottle of hard cider from a patient of mine," I informed, bringing said bottle from our liquor cabinet, along with two brandy snifters. "Would you share it with me?" 

"Of course, Watson. Mr. Tibble, I assume?" I was not surprised that he knew, not in the least, but I would play this game again for his sake. I inquired as to how he came to his conclusion. With a wave of the hand, he explained. "That peculiar type of cider can only be found in Glasgow, along with the kind of influenza that you told me Mr. Tibble had contracted last week. I merely assumed." 

"Nothing gets by you, my friend." I looked at him curiously as he let out a disbelieving snort. 

"Friend? Is that what I am?" Puzzled, I tried to understand, but failed. 

"What else would you be?" I did not get an answer. He remained silent and pensive, staring into the fire. I knew that if I left him alone for the shortest amount of time that he would return to his drug. I called his attention from his brooding by shoving something in front of his aquiline nose. 

"A present? Watson, I thought we'd agreed-" 

I cut him off. "Nonsense. You said we weren't going to exchange. It isn't an exchange if you didn't get me a present." Well, honestly, if he didn't get me anything, I'd be disappointed. 

He stood up and went into his bedroom. For a second I thought he was going into one of his moods, but when he came back, I was pleasantly surprised. It was a box-shaped object wrapped in red paper. He had gotten me a present. "It appears that neither of us are in accord with our agreement." 

We sat down, I on the sofa, he in his chair, and opened our presents. He smiled at me and thanked me for the kit I had bought him for his violin, commenting on how rare the type of resin was. Also included in the purchase was a new set of strings to be put on at the shop I had bought it from. I do believe he was sincere in his appreciation of the gift, or else he was putting his exemplary acting skills to use. 

Holmes' gift to me was a leather-bound diary of sorts. It had my initials on it and inside was a note from my companion. It read: 

Dearest Watson,  
You have been so good to me all these years when I have not deserved it. You show faith and loyalty beyond all other men's capacity. I thank you for your assistance and hope I will still have it many years from now, when this journal has been filled with our further adventures. You are invaluable. Love,   
Holmes. 

It was the `love' that caught my attention. I had no idea of what to say to this. Love. Love? The platonic love between friends and brothers? Or the passionate, sexual love of lovers? I looked over to him to try to read the man, then looked away. The fire in his eyes as they burned into mine was too much to look at for the flame was too bright. 

The door to his bedroom shut rather loudly, startling my attention that way. I laughed at myself for my silliness. He'd taken my silence as rejection. He was a fool. How could he think that I could reject him? 

Politely, I knocked on his door, recieving a "go away" in response. I never thought that I would hear Holmes sulk as if he were a teen. Testing the knob, I found that it was unlocked. I opened the door and heard Holmes curse. In our years together, I don't think he'd ever left that door unlocked. 

"If you'd really wanted me to go away, you would have locked the door," I stated. He groaned from his place on the bed, sitting against the headboard. Holding his head in his hands, he had his fingers laced through his lengthy hair. 

"Have you come to taunt me, my friend? To tell me how disgusting I am for wanting another man?" He asked, his voice muffled by his hands. Oh. He'd said it. There was the hard evidence I had always wanted and needed to carry out my desires. 

"Wouldn't that be hypocritical of me?" I asked rhetorically. I was smiling and he looked up at me, hardness in his eyes which I'd never seen directed towards me. 

"Reject me, Watson, but do not mock me. Do not set me up with false hopes. Leave me to my drug and I shall be searching for another apartment tomorrow. It's just as well-" This torrent of self-depreciation could not go on any longer, so I moved to the bed and sat on it, causing a depression in the matress which made him lose his balance and lean towards me. I chuckled at the lack of grace on his behalf. 

"I have not rejected you." I leaned in, not quite clear on what I was doing, for I had never before done this with another man, and placed my lips upon his. When I had imagined this moment (and I had, many times), it was always Holmes as the dominating one, but now I felt his submission as my arms went around his body and pulled him closer. He opened his mouth to let my tongue dart into the warmth. It was bliss. Sighing, he pulled away, and I followed his retreating lips. He laid his head on my shoulder, hugging me to him. 

"I want you to have me," he whispered, sending an electric jolt to my arousal. I felt a similar hardness pressed into my stomach. We kissed again, this time wild and animalistic. I think we had both waited for this for too long. Eventually, Holmes ended up on top of me, either of us in a state of semi-undress. We were rubbing against each other like dogs, but it felt so good that it didn't matter. Holmes pulled away causing me to whine at the loss of touch. 

He came back to me holding a bottle of thick oil. Being a doctor, I had no doubt as to what it was for, arousing me further. Now that he was more confident that I wanted this, he had easily assumed the leadership role. I didn't mind; that feral look of his did wonderful things to my erection. Handing me the oil, he growled, "Prepare me." 

Lying in bed later, with him in my arms, I had never been happier or more sated. Holmes was fast asleep, exhausted by the thorough pounding his body had taken. I looked about his room, my wandering gaze stopping upon the needle that lay on top of his dressing table. I had saved him, in a permanent way, hopefully. "Happy Christmas, Holmes," I whispered, placing a kiss upon his mop of hair, then gave into my drooping eyelids. 

 


End file.
